


Hart’s Moving Castle

by twentyfourblackbirds



Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Humor, M/M, Plot, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twentyfourblackbirds/pseuds/twentyfourblackbirds
Summary: In the land of Oxfords, where fairy tales are real and magic runs amuck, swineherds were constantly rescuing princesses and there were always job openings for woodcutters, grandmothers, and tailors specializing in red dye. In Oxfords, it was practically impossible for a youngest son to not go on a quest and succeed where his elder brothers had failed (and likely been turned into stone, frogs, or what have you).Harry Hart, the eldest child, and incidentally a studious and earnest sort of boy, had resigned himself early on to his fate.





	1. The One Where Harry Is Old

**Author's Note:**

> As a heads up, while I adore Miyazaki, this particular crossover is based on the story within Diana Wynne Jones’ _Howl’s Moving Castle_ , not the animated film :)

In the land of Oxfords, where fairy tales are real and magic runs amuck, swineherds were constantly rescuing princesses and there were always job openings for woodcutters, grandmothers, and tailors specializing in red dye. In Oxfords, it was practically impossible for a youngest son to _not_ go on a quest and succeed where his elder brothers had failed (and likely been turned into stone, frogs, or what have you).

Harry Hart, the eldest child, and incidentally a studious and earnest sort of boy, had resigned himself early on to his fate. He hadn’t even a cruel step-mother or father, which might have given him some chance of success (although of course, he hastily told himself, he was fortunate to have both parents alive and well, who were not in the least cruel).

And so Harry conscientiously developed an aversion towards adventures of all sorts, as well as a particular politeness for old crones hanging around bridges (although in fairness, Harry was naturally disposed to be kind and polite to all). He also shamelessly encouraged his youngest brother to venture out to seek his fortune, and was very satisfied when his brother performed a minor deed of heroism for the King and summarily went on to serve in his court as a knight.

It was no surprise at all to Harry when, at the age of thirty, he inherited his parents’ business, a modest and barely profitable hat shop at the edge of the capital. He had a good head for sums and was a fair if strict employer, and custom grew steadily under his watchful eye. Hart’s Hats became known as the byword for stylish yet classical hats, and his parents passed away happily in the knowledge that the family shop was in trustworthy hands.

It _was_ a surprise to Harry when, at the age of fifty, both of his younger brothers predeceased him as well. Percy, the middle son, had left the family business to marry a rosy-faced champion of a cook, and died happily, if early, in bed after a large meal of oysters.

Lance, the youngest, had been valiantly patrolling the border between Oxfords and Brogues when he was slain in an apparent skirmish. The skirmish itself was the subject of much gossip amongst the citizens of the city. Oxfords and Brogues had held a prosperous if tentative truce for almost half a century, and the possibility of war was both alarming and titillating to most. Conversations in the hat shop alternated wildly between the extremes of fear and jingoism.

The prospect of war, while troubling, did not trouble Harry nearly as much as the news of the loss of his last remaining relative. He declined to participate in the rampant speculation, instead spending much of his time turning his favorite top hat around and around in his hands.

When at last the letter from the King’s court arrived, he sighed heavily, donned his hat, dismissed his workers for the day, and headed out grimly into the city.

All his caution— all his hard work — it all meant nothing, because of a battle that never should have happened, between two countries at peace! Poor Lance — he had at least tried to make the Hart name mean something than just mere shop-owners. And what had Harry done? He had stayed home and made — _hats_. And what was Harry now? Old, and with nothing to show for it.

Unfortunately, what Harry also had not done was look where he was going, and it was that this moment that he collided heavily with someone.

“Oi!” said a boy belligerently from somewhere around ground level.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” Harry managed, when he had recovered from all the wind being knocked out of him. “That was entirely my fault. Please, allow me—”

The boy — a young man, really — graciously accepted Harry’s hand and hauled himself upright. “Well, no real ’arm done,” he said gruffly, dusting himself off.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” Harry apologized profusely. “Er — allow me make up for —”

The boy, taking in Harry’s distress, softened visibly. “No need for that, gramps,” he said, now amiable. “Just be careful — wouldn’t want you hurting yourself, eh?”

Harry’s mouth opened and shut a few times.

“No, I suppose not,” he said at last.

The boy patted his hand kindly. “Would y’like me to help you to wherever you’re going?” he said, in what he clearly thought was a gallant tone of voice. “It can be quite hard to see in this light, right?”

Harry drew himself up. As frostily as he dared, he said, “Thank you for your kindness, young man, but I couldn’t trouble you. I’ll make my way myself.”

“Please yourself,” the young man said, unabashed. “Just make sure you watch where you’re going next time, bruv.”

Harry stalked off, pride not allowing him to visibly fume.

Gramps! Hard to see! He’d show them. He’d march to the gates of Brogues, demand an explanation for Lance’s death, and— and—

And get killed somehow, likely laughably, of course. He was the eldest — he was destined for failure.

It was in this gloomy frame of mind that Harry plodded up the stairs to the King’s courtyard, presented the seal on the letter to a guard, and was eventually shown the way into an intimidatingly tapestried room.

“Your Majesty,” Harry said, sinking to his left knee, which complained.

King Chester looked at him gravely from over his throne. “Hart, is it? You have our most grievous condolences over the loss of Sir Lance. He was one of my most able knights, and I wished to personally impart his belongings to you, as well as extend a royal token of our gratitude for his service. Nothing can make up for the loss of a brother, but this token grants you a direct audience with me — should you be in need of something that I am willing and is in my power to hear out. Simply show it to any palace guard and you will be escorted to me.”

Harry was thoroughly taken aback by the purple medallion being pinned to his breast by a nameless squire. “Your Majesty is too kind,” he managed, and then hesitated. “If it’s not too presumptuous, I was also wondering if — if there had been any explanation from Brogues as to why the attack—”

The king held up a hand, not unkindly. “I’m afraid I cannot share any information about the events around Lance’s death. The current situation requires the utmost discretion and diplomacy. I would urge you to forget about it, if you can.”

Harry bowed his head in defeat. “As Your Majesty says,” he murmured dispiritedly.

The walk back home felt much slower, somehow, and it wasn’t merely due to the crate of Lance’s late possessions. The token had a weight all of its own. A King’s Medallion! A boon which the king would grant if within his power! Perhaps now, Harry could do some good. Perhaps now…

As Harry rounded the familiar corner home, he was startled to see a tall and handsomely dressed figure standing on the doorstep.

“I’m so terribly sorry — I thought I put up the ‘Closed’ sign —” Harry hurried up to the shop, almost dropping everything in his haste.

“You did, you did,” the man said, waving a pacifying hand. “I’ve jutht heard tho many good things about your thtore that I had to wait until you opened again.”

“Oh,” Harry said, flustered. “That’s quite the honor. Please, come in, I’ll get you personally served right away.”

“I knew it wath worth the wait, if I’m being helped by Harry Hart himself,” the man said, breaking into a grin and ambling into the store. “The name’th Valentine, by the way. Richmond Valentine. It’th a real pleathure to meet you!”


	2. The One Where Harry Is Young

Harry had to pause to appreciate the suit. It was both immaculately fitted and exquisitely tailored, and had been matched with patent leather shoes so new the cow probably hadn’t noticed it was gone.

Valentine noticed his admiring gaze, and preened.

“A beauty, ithn’t it?” he said. “From Thaville Row, you know, and they recommended you. I gotta have only the betht hat to go with a thuit like thith, am I right?”

“Exactly right, Mr. Valentine,” Harry agreed, disappearing into the back of the shop.

Hat selling, as Harry knew by heart, was an art rather than a science, and even more a game than an art. You always wanted to provide a selection of exactly three hats. The first one should be obviously wrong, that the customer would dismiss out of hand. The second should be close; it was possible that the customer _might_ choose it, but more often than not they would produce some minor complaint or reason to send it back.

The third hat, now… The third hat was what separated true hatters from mere manufacturers who happened to combine cloth into wearable shapes. The trick of the third hat had everything do with the hatter’s ability to read their customer, to know their life story by the stains on their elbows, their predilections by the turn of their nose, and their hopes and dreams by the twinkle in their eye.

For the first, Harry chose last season’s most expensive hat. It had been highly sought after and much admired, but by now was too short to be fashionable, and the the slight flare at the top was out of vogue with the now-popular stovepipe hats.

For the second, Harry selected a pinstriped top hat with rather plain white trimming. While the pattern would complement Valentine’s suit well, he guessed that the brim and the band would be rather too plain for Valentine’s tastes, if he was any judge of character.

For the third, Harry hesitated minutely before pulling a key out of his pocket. Almost reverentially, he unlocked a cupboard towards the back of the room, and retrieved a sturdy hatbox.

Emerging rather breathlessly into the storefront, he carefully laid out his choices before Valentine, who rubbed his hands and chuckled.

“I have a feeling I’ll enjoy thith,” he said, standing up.

He gave the first hat a doubtful once-over. “I thaw my good friend the Duke wearing the thame hat a few monthth back. It looked good, but I’d rather outdo him if it’th all the thame to you — I’ll be around him tonight, and the hat’th gotta be something that makes eyebrowth rithe.”

“Of course,” Harry murmured, putting away the offending accessory.

“Thith one…” Valentine lingered over the second hat, and then cautiously tried it on, angling his head in front of a full-length mirror. “It feelth nice,” he acknowledged slowly. “But it’th a bit… boring. I don’t thuppose you can get thith band in bolder color?”

“Absolutely, in a few days—”

“I’m afraid it hath to be by tonight, Mr. Hart.”

Harry shook his head regretfully, too familiar with the eccentricities and demands of the rich and fashionable to be put off by the request. “In that case, we’ll have to continue our search. However, I have high hopes for your thoughts on this specimen…”

Harry carefully undid the clasps on the hatbox, and like a priest laying out a sacrifice on an altar, placed the hat before Valentine.

“This top hat is one of the few silk and gossamer hats available — as you may know, most are wool or fur,” Harry murmured. “The silk was imported from Brogues. The gossamer was cured for five months before it could be used for this purpose. And the trimming is made from the silk of Golden Monarch moths, and is entirely undyed. Its color will never fade.”

Harry held his breath while Valentine held up the top hat critically, and looked it over at length.

At last, the man said, almost wistfully, “It’th lovely… but it has no thoul.”

Harry blinked rapidly. “Soul?”

Valentine shook his head. “I want a hat with thoul, Mr. Hart. A hat that’th felt the emothionth of itth wearer. A hat that knowth both heaven and hell. A hat, in fact… with a hithtory.” He closed his eyes, sniffed once or twice, and then pointed dramatically. “I would, in fact, like _that_ hat.”

Harry followed the direction of his finger, and frowned in severe puzzlement. “But— but, that’s _my_ hat.”

The hat in question hung rather forlornly on a hook by the door. If you wanted to be kind, you could have used the words “well-worn” and “classic”. If you _didn’t_ want to be kind, you could have added “hopelessly out of date”, and, in places, “almost threadbare”. Harry had taken good care of it, and it was perfectly serviceable for everyday wear, but nevertheless it was several years old, and Harry had been too busy to make a new one for himself.

“Yeth, indeed,” Valentine said, bounding over and seizing it. “Now _thith_ hat... knowth love… loyalty… and longing.” Valentine paused significantly, turning the hat over in his hands. “And the trimming ith fathcinating!”

“It’s our family insignia,” said Harry, rather lost. “My father came up with it — the red color, and the heart embroidery, you see, is a rather silly joke around our last name—”

Valentine beamed. “It’th perfect. I’ll pay anything you like for it.”

“But— but, everyone will notice it! You’ll be the laughing-stock of your party!” Harry exclaimed, horrified.

Valentine’s smile grew larger. “Like I thaid, it’th perfect.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest further — _what will that reflect on my shop, I’ll be ruined when word of this gets around, it’s_ my _family’s hat!_ — and closed it again. His shop? His reputation? His family, which was now just him, a single man with no one to leave the business to? He looked down at the medallion on his chest, and then at the hat, and made up his mind.

“Mr. Valentine,” he said, decisively, “you can have that hat for free.”

Valentine looked surprised. “But I offered —”

“I know,” Harry said. “But I— oh, I don’t know why I’m telling you this: you’re my last customer. I’m going to sell this shop tomorrow. It hasn’t done me a scrap of good; my brother died all the same, and I want to know who, and why.”

Valentine, quite unexpectedly, looked delighted. “A revenge quetht! Oh, I would love to help you, but they’re not _quite_ in my line of work. Although…” he looked Harry up and down a little mischievously at this point. “You haven’t had much to do with romance, have you, Mr. Hart? You don’t theem to be married.”

Harry was taken aback at the apparently non sequitur. “Er— no, I was always too busy with the shop,” he managed.

Valentine clapped his hands together like a child. “Perfect! Then, Mr. Hart, let me return your generothity the only way a Cupid can.”

Harry’s mouth opened. A cupid? Of course — the name, the trimming — had he been blind? Then he caught sight of the mirror across the room, and his jaw dropped even lower.

The reflection that returned his shocked expression had been familiar to him a good thirty years ago. His hands reached up to pat his face — not a wrinkle or thread of silver in sight — and registered, with amazement, the absence of the usual twinge of arthritis in his wrists and elbows.

“The thpell will only affect your appearance and take thome ache and pain away,” Valentine said, a little gently. “I can’t actually make you younger — the godth get upthet when we meth with immortality — but it will help on your journey, I think.”

“Yes— I mean— this is more than I could have ever asked for,” Harry said, still stunned. “Thank you, truly.”

“De nada,” Valentine said, winking. “You have a good heart, Mr. Hart. I know that… for _thertain_. Oh,” he added carelessly, as if as an afterthought, “and of courthe, ath with all Cupid magic, you can’t tell anyone you’re under a thpell, and it’ll be broken if you find true love. But that ithn’t thuch a bad deal, ith it? Betht of luck, Mr. Hart. I look forward to hearing the end of your thtory.”

With another wink and a tip of his newly acquired hat, Valentine strolled out the door, grinning from ear to ear.


	3. The One Where Harry Sets Out

And so it was the next day that Harry set out east, with a bundle of food, gold in his purse, Lance’s sword at his waist, and a face full of boyish hope.

Once he had left the city gates, and the capital was but a speck dwindling in the distance, the first person he encountered was, of course, an old crone waiting patiently by a bridge.

“Ho there, young master,” the old crone cried out, upon seeing him. “Would you perchance have food or sustenance you could spare for a poor and ailing old woman?”

Harry was, as mentioned previously, a very well-read man. He readily opened his bags and proffered the food he had packed to the crone.

“Ah, but what a kind young gentleman, to be sure,” the crone cackled in delight, accepting the gift. “Please, please, cross the bridge without fear of being turned into stone or any other curses of the sort.”

Harry thanked her gratefully and was about to continue on his way when the old woman called out with sudden suspicion, “Here, you _are_ the youngest son, aren’t you?”

Harry hesitated.

“Er, technically, I’m the eldest,” he confessed uncertainly.

“Oh no! Unacceptable,” the crone quavered, looking upset. “This is most irregular, most highly irregular. The Fairy Tale Board of Association Council will have my head for this if I allow an eldest son through on a quest. There must be something…” She plunged a hand into the recesses of her baggy dress, and produced a toad, which blinked in the sunlight.

“Yes?” the toad croaked, crabbily.

“We have an irregularity,” the crone informed him. “This young man here provided succor per the requirements, but he’s an _eldest_ child.”

The toad blinked again, and put on a pair of spectacles. “Most interesting, most interesting,” he murmured. “Indeed an act with very little precedence — I believe the last occurrence of such an incident was only permitted due to the defendant in question being the half-son of the God of Thieves. Hm, hm, hm. I don’t suppose you’re the progeny of any deities around these parts?” he addressed the last remark towards Harry.

Harry shook his head, mystified.

“Any cruel step-mothers or fathers?”

“I’m afraid not,” Harry said with some regret.

“Special birthmarks? Magic swords or rings that glow blue in the presence of Latin professors?”

“No again, sorry.”

“You’re making this very hard for us, you know,” the toad said reproachfully.

“Er— if it counts for anything, both my younger brothers and my parents are dead,” Harry volunteered.

“Ah! An orphan!” the toad brightened up considerably, and the crone heaved a sigh of relief. “An acceptable loophole. Please, pass.”

As Harry crossed the bridge with some relief, he heard the toad informing the crone, “My consultation fee will be five slugs and a princess, thank you,” and shook his head again at the oddity of it all.

He hadn’t travelled much further along the road at all when he heard a distant, “Help! Help!”

Harry stopped and looked around, mystified. There wasn’t a soul in sight, just fields and farms. Despite this, he once again heard a faint, “Help! You there! Lad!”

“Er— is anyone there?” he ventured, feeling slightly insane.

“Aye, there’s somebody here! On your left, you idiot!”

Harry looked to his left rather hopelessly. He still couldn’t see a single person. The only thing in the rather barren field was a useless scarecrow — useless because any number of crows were perched on its stick figure arms. But surely—

“I can practically hear the gears in your head squeakin’,” the voice piped up again irritably. “Yes, I’m the scarecrow. Get these birds off me and dig me outta here!”

“Wouldn’t — wouldn’t that be theft?”

“Oh gods, save us from heroes with morals. I’m clearly a _magical_ scarecrow, you daft git, I don’t belong to some farmer with more teeth than brain cells!”

Harry crossed his arms, now slightly annoyed. “If you’re so bloody magical, what are you doing helpless in the middle of a field, then?”

The scarecrow fell silent at this. “I was, er, incognito,” it said at last, feigning indifference.

“It looks like you succeeded, then,” Harry said, making as if to move on.

“No! Wait! Oh, alright — _please_ will you help me out of this hole in the ground?”

“Oh, it looks like you _do_ know some magic words,” Harry said, half-smugly, and picked his way across the field.

Unfortunately, as he had no spade, he had to resort to breaking up the dirt with his sword (he could almost hear Lance turning in his grave), and scrabbling through the soil with his bare hands. Finally, however, after one last terrific heave, the scarecrow popped out of the ground like a cork and the crows on his arms took off with a series of raucous squawks.

“Oh, aye, much better,” the scarecrow said, giving a few experimental hops. “I’m sorry about the, the grumpiness, but _you_ try being stuck up to your knees in dirt fer days and asking nicely to be freed.”

“Tell me,” Harry panted, wiping the sweat off his brow, “what’s your name?”

The scarecrow stopped hopping in embarrassment. “I dinnae,” it admitted.

“You don’t know?”

The scarecrow tilted from side to side uneasily. “There’s a… I have this gap, in my head.”

Harry looked around suspiciously. “You’re not going to start singing about needing a brain, are you?” The road wasn’t even very yellow.

“What? What are you blathering on about? No, my memories... were taken from me. I have this, this knowledge that the entire kingdom is at stake and I have to save it, but… I canna remember why, or how,” the scarecrow ended miserably.

“You didn’t offend any old crones, did you?” Harry asked doubtfully.

“I don’t think so,” the scarecrow said. “In any case, like I said, I _am_ magical. I can feel that I have a lot of magic, anyway. But I canna remember how to cast any of it!”

The scarecrow hopped around in frustrated circles, and then stopped abruptly.

“What’s that on your chest?” it said, leaning in alarmingly close.

“It’s a King’s Medallion,” Harry said, backing away. “It’s a token that grants me an audience with King Chester, to make a request that he will fulfill if he is able.”

“The king, the king,” the scarecrow repeated in a faraway voice. “That brings back something… something… OH!” With absolutely no warning, it leapt up and began bounding away in massive leaps.

“You’re bloody welcome!” Harry shouted after it. He strained his ears and thought he heard a very faint “thank you!”, but dismissed it as wishful thinking on his part.

Picking up his sword, he sighed and set off once more down the road.

It came as absolutely no surprise to him when not soon after, he was stopped a third time, on this occasion by a man sitting in the middle of the road, on a stool of all things.

“Let me just get this out of the way,” Harry said resignedly. “You’re not some kind of magical being, are you?”

“No no, nothing of the sort,” the man answered, getting up.

“Nor some kind of fairy tale gatekeeper? I’m an orphan, you know,” Harry said, without much hope.

“No no, nothing of that kind either. Me and my friends are simply very ordinary bandits,” the man said, gesturing, and half a dozen other men stepped out of the bushes, all with crossbows pointed at him.

“Oh,” said Harry, “I might have known.”

“We really _don’t_ want to kill you,” the bandit said apologetically. “Just give us all your money and we’ll let you pass through, no harm done. Think of it as a really expensive road toll, eh? And tell you what, since you’re an orphan, if you come back this way, we’ll even let you by for free, how’s that for a deal?”

“Wow,” Harry echoed glumly, handing over his purse.

The bandit beamed and put it away. “Thanks for your business, mate. Have a lovely rest of your day, and don’t hesitate to patronize us again for all your highway robbery needs!”

Harry just rolled his eyes and started to shove past when a bearded bandit spoke up. “Oi, what about that sword ’round your belt, then?”

Harry put one defensive hand over its hilt. “This sword was passed on to me by my brother, a knight of King Chester.”

“Pretty little thing. Hand it over, pal,” the bandit leered.

“It’s all I have left to remember my brother by!” Harry protested angrily.

“Everybody’s got a sob story,” the robber said unfeelingly. “Go on, or I’ll shoot an arrow through yer knee, like.”

Harry’s eyes darted from bandit to bandit, trying to find a way out. Some of them looked slightly uncomfortable, but all of them were nevertheless pointing their crossbows at him. He cursed silently. He should have known good luck didn’t last long for an eldest son.

Irate, he unstrapped the sword from his belt and flung it in the dirt, and the bandit’s feet. “May it do you as much good as it did my _dead brother_ ,” he spat, stalking past.

On cue, as a much lighter Harry stomped angrily down the path, a great roll of thunder echoed throughout and storm clouds poured like magic into the sky. Within minutes, he was soaked to the bone.

Teeth chattering, he ran through the heavy rains and howling winds, squinting up ahead for shelter of any kind. There — a light! Was it a house? Please, gods, let it be a house.

As he drew closer to the light shining in the darkness, he realized, as its silhouette loomed ahead, that he’d gotten the size wrong. This wasn’t a house, or even a town. It was an enormous stone castle with spiralling towers… and it was floating. Just a feet or two above the ground, but nevertheless it was definitely floating.

Utterly befuddled, Harry tapped a finger against the stone walls. As if in response, the castle drifted slightly to the right. Harry hastily sprinted around the side, searching wildly for an entrance. He first came upon a large and forbidding pair of double oak doors, with no visible way to open it. Not to be deterred, he banged on the wood with both fists, shouting desperately, “Let me in! Please, let me in!”

The doors remained solidly shut. Harry banged again a few more times, and then gave up and headed towards the back of the castle.

There awaited him a much smaller and cozier door, with a lamp lit welcomingly in its archway. Unfortunately, the castle seemed to have decided to set off just then, and began to float off slowly to the southeast.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Harry yelled, and with a considerable burst of speed, made a running jump onto the stone doorstep. The castle made a barely audible humming noise, and began to ascend smoothly above the treelines.

Harry, wide-eyed, managed to let go of his death grip on the walls long enough to yank hard at the door handle. To both his enormous relief and terror, it gave way, and he unceremoniously fell arse over tit into the bowels of the moving castle.


	4. The One Where Harry Sets Up

As Harry staggered to his feet, dripping and disoriented, the first thing he noticed was the silence. It wasn’t smothering, exactly, but it was the kind of quiet that comes only from houses empty of a living soul.

Nevertheless, because he had been raised properly, he called out in a rather strained voice, “I say, hello? Is anybody there?”

A resounding lack of response echoed back.

To tell the truth, Harry was a bit relieved at that. He’d been a little too preoccupied to think about what kind of people would own a floating castle, but the possibilities were slowly beginning to dawn upon him.

He glanced a tad nervously about the room, which was lit dimly by a smoldering hearth. This must be… the servants quarters? It seemed far too plain for a proper castle, especially a magical one, but there was no judging a book by its cover.

Jars of various shapes and sizes lined the shelves, and shelves covered almost every available surface area of the walls. Next to the fireplace, various utensils and pots were hung neatly. In the far corner was a workbench littered with various papers, books, and — Harry squinted —  a skull?

A shiver overtook Harry’s body, reminding him that he had more immediate concerns than curiosity. He hastily shed his soaking wet shoes and tunic, although he couldn’t quite bear to lose his britches, as damply uncomfortable as they were. Supposing someone came back and saw him in the nude? No, that would be terribly uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Conscientiously, he appropriated a few lumps of coal from the coal bucket and heaped it into the fire, which sat up and waved in gratitude. He carefully laid out his soggy clothings as close to it as he dared, and in doing so, finally noticed finally noticed the other doorway, tucked away in alcove behind the fireplace. There was a sign hanging next to it, with four different blobs of paint on each side, and a dial pointing down to a black blob. Harry frowned and tentatively tried the doorknob. Locked. Strange.

Aside from the locked door and the door he’d entered from, the only other exit appeared to be an ascending wooden staircase, which presumably led to the rest of the castle. He craned his neck trying to see into the inky darkness, and decided quickly that downstairs was really more his style. The staircase could wait until the morning, in any case.

Habits are a hard thing to shake, especially from fifty years of running a shop, and Harry’s was taking a careful inventory of his stock at the end of each day. He had:

  * No food (to eat).
  * No money (to pay for any food he took).
  * And no sword (to fend off someone angry about being stolen from).



Harry strained to remember an applicable fairy tale for his current situation. Something about a hairy prince, and singing clocks, and not eating an apple? Or was it picking a rose? Or perhaps picking his nose? Either way, the general advice when coming upon a strange abode (whether it was a gingerbread cottage or castle) seemed to be to leave well enough alone.

Sighing, he curled up on the cold stone floor in front of the fireplace, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Harry was jolted awake by the sound of jingling keys and a door sliding open. He blinked up dazedly, ready to blurt out apologies, and found them dying unsaid on his tongue as he stared into the surprised expression of the boy he had unceremoniously crashed into not two days ago.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the boy, perplexed. “And where have I seen you before?”

“I am a perfect stranger,” Harry lied firmly. What else was he supposed to say? _Oh, hello, fancy seeing you again. I ran into you — quite literally — two days and thirty years ago_? He’d rather not be taken even further for a madman, thank you very much.

Finally remembering his manners, he hastened to explain, “I’m so terribly sorry — I was caught in a downpour, you see, and I badly needed shelter — and I saw this floating castle, so I, I thought perhaps…” his explanation dwindled away feebly, caught in the gaze of the boy’s piercing eyes.

“Hmm. Well, it takes a bit of courage to break into a wizard’s castle, I can tell you that,” the boy said.

Harry looked around worriedly. A wizard? He hadn’t read up much on those. “When will the wizard be back, do you think?” he asked anxiously.

“Oh, not for a few days,” the boy said casually, unhooking a pan from the wall and placing it with a bang over the fire. “You’ll be alright. D’you want breakfast? You look pretty hungry there, bruv.”

On cue, Harry’s stomach rumbled. He said sheepishly, “Yes, I would love… but I’m afraid I have no money to pay you with. I was robbed by bandits just before finding this castle.”

“Bandits?” the boy looked at him, frowning. “Where?”

Harry shrugged helplessly. “Somewhere on the road to Brogues. I’m afraid I don’t know exactly where. Past the old crone on the bridge and a bit after the magical scarecrow.”

The boy’s eyebrows were raised. “You were going to _Brogues_? Y’know we’re almost at war with them, right?”

Looking down at his feet, Harry said quietly, “Yes. I know.”

“You’re a strange sort of boy,” the boy remarked, cracking two eggs into the pan. “You walk towards wars and enter wizards’ castles. What will you do next, I wonder?”

Harry bristled with every fiber of his being. Being called a boy by someone _he_ thought of as a boy was the highest insult imaginable. He said a shade coolly, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch _your_ name. You are—? An apprentice of the wizard’s, I presume?”

“Eggsy,” the boy said, flashing him a grin. “Don’t worry about paying, bruv, we can spare the food.”

“Harry,” he said, mollified by the prospect of food. “And thank you. Please know that I will pay you back if I can.”

“Oh? And what can you do for me?” the boy said, clearly amused at the thought.

“I can — I can do sums,” Harry said, a tad indignantly. “I’m quite good at them. And I’m pretty deft with a needle, if I do say so myself.”

“Sewing and sums?” the boy laughed outright. “What on earth kind of adventurer are you?”

“Not a very good one,” Harry admitted, looking down at the loop on his belt where his sword should have been.

“As it happens,” Eggsy said, chuckling, “the wizard has a ledger that he needs balancing. I suppose you could look at that after breakfast if your pride won’t allow you to leave a favour unreturned.”

“Excellent,” Harry beamed. He located his dried-out belongings and began to shuck them on. His shoes unfortunately felt like they’d shrunk ever so slightly. He had just finished pulling on his tunic when he caught Eggsy staring.

He returned his gaze uncertainly, feeling his face heat up, but apparently Eggsy had something else in mind.

“That pin on your shirt,” he started, then stopped. “Where’d you get it from?”

“Er,” Harry said uncertainly, “the king awarded it to me after my brother passed away.”

“Ah,” Eggsy said, and added hastily, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Harry mumbled. A heavy, guarded silence fell over the table. Eggsy rather stiltedly got out some plates and scraped some eggs out of the pan.

“Thank you,” Harry said again, feeling odd and awkward. “Please, feel free to drop me off after this. I would hate to get under your feet—” he stopped as Eggsy’s expression grew even more serious.

“I’m sorry, bruv, but you can’t leave just yet.”

“What? Why?” Harry asked, bewildered. “Can’t I just hop off the same way I got on?”

Eggsy gestured to a small and grimy window. “See for yourself.”

Harry got up and peered out through the dirt. It took him a moment, but eventually the penny dropped. “We’re thousands of feet in the air,” he said dully.

Eggsy nodded. “Sorry, mate. Wizard’s orders. When the castle’s mid-flight, it takes a lot of magic to bring it down and back up again. You’re stuck for at least another day or two.”

“Where are we headed?” Harry asked resignedly. Perhaps it might take him a little closer to Brogues, at least—

“Ascot,” Eggsy said bluntly, dashing Harry’s hopes. Ascot was far west, on the opposite border of Oxfords from Brogues.

“Of course,” Harry said, scrubbing his face. “I don’t suppose you’d be heading back in the direction of Brogues after?” he asked, without hope.

Eggsy cocked his head and looked at him with something a little more than curiosity. “Why’re you so bent on getting to Brogues, Harry?”

Harry looked down again. “My brother died there,” he said at last.

Eggsy was silently for a while longer. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll clear it with the wizard. I can’t take you into Brogues itself, mind. But up to its borders.”

“That would be perfect,” Harry said, overwhelmed with relief.

“Of course, you’ll have to earn your keep while you’re here,” Eggsy said, some of his mischievous smile returning. He tossed a heavy red ledger on the table with a thud, causing the plates of eggs to jump into the air. “I can’t have you freeloading off my food the entire time, can I?”


	5. The One Where Harry Is Surprised

Harry was nothing if not a man of his word, and thus the next afternoon found him sitting down firmly to tackle the ominous red ledger. He was dismayed but undeterred to find that the handwriting inside was closer to an illegible scrawl than actual words.

The wizard apparently owned a magic shop where he sold spells and potions, although the prices were definitely giving Harry a bit of trouble. They seemed to vary wildly anywhere from a handful of coppers to a hundred gold.

“Eggsy,” Harry said at last, holding up the book and turning it sideways, and then upside down. “Am I reading this wrong? This spell — I _think_ it’s a Toothache Cure, either that or Tootbarky Drg — was sold twice in one day. The first time, it was sold for two coppers. The second time, it sold for ten gold. Why?”

Eggsy appeared to think it over for a bit. “What day was that?”

Harry peered at the writing again with great effort. “The forty-first day of Fall.”

“Ah!” a memory slotted into place in Eggsy’s brain. “Yeah, the first ’un was a real sweet woman. But she was dirt poor, you see, and she couldn’t hardly afford a dentist for her four-year-old. The second, well, he was a real toff.” Eggsy’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “All ‘my good man’ this and ‘don’t you know’ that.” His voice rose into a nasally approximation of a posh accent, before returning to normal. “So I charged him more, didn’t I. Wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.”

“Eggsy,” Harry said wearily, “you can’t just overcharge people like that.”

“Why not?” Eggsy asked, innocently. “If they don’t like it, they can go find another wizard to sell them magic, yeah?”

“It’s bad business sense,” Harry ran a hand over his face.

Eggsy made a face. “Oh, well, _business_ ,” he said dismissively. “’Sides, it’s not like a toff like that’s going to ever talk to us plebs and compare prices, am I right?”

Harry grumbled and returned to the books. Miraculously, given Eggsy’s apparent soft-hearted tendency to sell spells at a steep discount, the shop did indeed seem to make a bustling margin of profit.

As he totalled up the last sum and neatly penned it into the bottom column, he announced proudly to Eggsy, “Your wizard’s made sixty-three gold, twenty silver, and two coppers in profit so far this season.”

“Oh?” Eggsy was buried nose-deep in a tome of some sort. “That’s good, yeah? Hey, now that you’re done with that, why don’t you come here and help me with this spell?”

Harry set down the book and made his way over nervously. “I don’t know anything about magic, you know,” he warned.

“No worries, you’ll just be holding things steady and passin’ me things, like,” Eggsy said reassuringly. “Here, pour that out into this, will ya?” he waved vaguely at a jug on a shelf and handed Harry an empty vial.

“What spell is this for?” Harry said, half-fascinated, watching the tar-like brown liquid ooze slowly into the vial.

“Oh, it just causes explosions,” Eggsy said absently, and then laughed as Harry almost dropped the jug. “I’m jokin’! Well, sorta. It’s a fireworks spell. It’s Count Hesketh’s birthday in a few weeks, and don’t he want everybody in Oxfords to know it.”

“Does the wizard do… well, you know, spells like that? That actually harm people?”

Eggsy looked up, a frown on his face. “What, you mean like black magic? No,” he said shortly.

“Oh,” said Harry, relieved. “What about love potions?”

At that, Eggsy’s grin returned. “Oh, loads,” he said airily. “They’re about as effective as scented candles, but they’re just a few coppers and people like ’em, is what matters.”

“That’s dishonest, Eggsy,” Harry said reprovingly.

“Nah, I mean, I _tell_ ’em that,” Eggsy said, cheerfully. “If people want to mess around with love they gotta go to the Cupids, and best of luck with those slippery bastards, is what I always say.”

Harry, not really wanting to discuss the matter of Cupids, quickly changed the subject. “So when will we see this famous wizard, anyway? When we arrive at Ascot?”

“Yeah, probably then,” Eggsy said, shrugging.

“What’s his name, even, anyway?”

Eggsy hesitated, and then said, “Pendragon. Here, hold this for me, would you?” He unceremoniously dumped a load of dark powder into Harry’s hands, mumbled, and made a few enigmatic passes over it with his hand.

Harry scowled down at the dust on his trousers. “He must trust you quite a bit to leave you unattended over his castle and shop.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been here since I was a kid,” Eggsy shrugged. “What about you, then, Mr. Questions? You’re good at business and sewing. So you were what, a tailor? What made you quit a cushy job like that to wander the wide open world?”

It was Harry’s turn to hesitate now.

“I was afraid of growing old, and without having done a single noble or heroic thing in my family’s name,” he said slowly.

To his surprise, Eggsy seemed quite unimpressed with that answer. “Being a tailor isn’t _nothing_ ,” he said. “Besides, what’s so bloody great about a family name anyway?”

“Well, it’s what my brother died for,” Harry said, a bit hotly. “Besides, what would you know, anyway? You’re set to become some famous wizard, aren’t you?”

“Wasn’t always,” Eggsy replied tartly. “I was just some dumb kid living in the streets before. And I certainly didn’t do it to become _famous_.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

Eggsy seemed to mull this over. “To do some good in a fucked up world, I guess,” he said at last.

“I don’t think the world’s all _that_ bad,” Harry said doubtfully.

“Not this—” Eggsy stopped, annoyed. “If you say that, it’s just ’cos you haven’t seen enough of it yet, bruv.”

Harry was about to retort that he’d seen fifty years of it, thank you very much (even if they _had_ been all of the inside of his shop), when the conditions of Valentine’s spell struck. Or rather, stuck.

“Why are you opening and closing your mouth like that?” Eggsy asked irritably.

“Nothing,” Harry said, giving up. “I’m not as unworldly as I seem.” But the protest sounded feeble, even to his own ears.

“Sure, Harry,” Eggsy said, kindly. “Look, the spell’s almost done, but I could use your help with the last bit, alright? When I walk around it in a circle, get ready to slam this box down on it, yeah?”

“Alright,” said Harry, a tad anxiously.

“Ready… ready… _now_!”

Harry banged the wooden box over the rapidly expanding spell, and heard the joints creak in protest. Eggsy quickly waved a hand, and the box flipped in the air, snapping shut as it did so.

“One firework spell, done and dusted,” Eggsy beamed. “An easy forty gold if there ever was one.”

Harry wiped a bit of sweat off his brow, feeling unaccountably proud. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“What?” Eggsy said, surprised.

“It might be better to do— to live to make the world a better place. Not just for pride, or— or vengeance.”

Eggsy looked at him for a moment, and then broke out into a brilliant smile. “Well, I mean, we ain’t doing it by making pretty fireworks, but it gets us there. How’d you feel about helping me make a toothache cure or a growing spell for crops tomorrow?”

“I would like that,” Harry said, and meant it.

* * *

Between learning new spells and helping around the moving castle, Harry’s days were kept busy. For his nights, Eggsy found a mattress and blanket for him that was much softer than the cold stone floor. He himself disappeared upstairs each night — presumably to his own bedroom — and simply shrugged whenever Harry pressed him as to what was in the rest of the castle. “The wizard don’t like people knowing,” was all he would say on the matter.

It seemed like hardly any time at all had passed before Eggsy looked up one morning and announced, “We’ve arrived.”

“The capital of Ascot?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.

Eggsy shook his head. “No, we’re visiting… a friend. She lives a bit in the middle of nowhere, see. Harry—” he hesitated.

“Yes?”

“Whatever happens, know that—”

But whatever Harry was supposed to know, it was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Eggsy got up to open it, and staggered back at the weight of a fully grown woman throwing herself into his arms.

“Hi, Roxy,” he said, laughing.

“Eggsy, it’s been too long! When are you going to install a door like I keep—” Eggsy made a short motion with one hand, and she looked over his shoulder. Upon seeing Harry, her well-shaped eyebrows shot up.

“Who on earth is this, Eggsy?”

“Harry, this is Roxanne. She goes by Roxy. Roxy, this is Harry. He’s, ah — a friend.”

“A friend?” Roxy managed to raise her eyebrows even higher. “Well, _well_ , Eggsy, I see we have plenty to gossip about. And your timing really is a great coincidence. I happen to have someone for you to meet as well—”

On cue, a dark-haired woman in a severe dress entered, and stood rigidly next to Roxy. “Gazelle,” she said curtly, nodding at Eggsy and making absolutely no movement to shake hands.

Eggsy frowned, ever so slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gazelle. Roxy, can we talk upstairs—?”

“Of course,” the latter said breezily, and clattered up the stairs in a cacophony of heels. Eggsy hurried after her, their murmured conversation clicking off abruptly as a door closed.

An awkward silence descended between the two leftover individuals. Valiantly attempting to break it, Harry ventured, “Gazelle, was it? You must be Lady Roxy’s, er, handmaiden?”

Gazelle gave him a chilly look. “No.”

“Apprentice?”

“No.”

“Beau?”

The look dropped a couple degrees. “No.”

“Bodyguard?” Harry was guessing wildly at this point.

“Closer. I will accept that nomenclature.”

“So what does that make Lady Roxy?”

Gazelle barked a short laugh. “She is not a lady.”

“Well, then, what is she? A hairdresser? A courtesan?” Harry was quickly losing patience with his conversation partner’s answers.

“You would visit people without knowing who they are?” Gazelle’s face bore an amused expression for the first time.

“I didn’t exactly have a _choice_ , here—” Harry began, when Gazelle cut him off.

“She is the Wicked Witch of Ascot.”

Harry blinked once or twice. “She didn’t _seem_ particularly wicked,” was all he came up with.

Gazelle rolled her eyes. “Of course not. It is a stage name, a name intended to incite fear in the simple-minded. Just like Oxfords’ Great Wizard Pendragon.”

“Ah,” Harry said, understanding dawning. “I’m sorry the wizard wasn’t here to meet you today, by the way,” he added, as an afterthought.

Gazelle gave him a blank stare. “We met him,” she said in a bored tone.

“Oh,” said Harry surprised. “Did you bump into him outside the castle?”

Gazelle was now looking at him as if he were soft in the head. “We met him,” she said, enunciating deliberately. “He just walked up the stairs with Roxanne.”

Harry’s mouth slowly fell open.


End file.
